


gotta be true to your code

by singmyheart



Category: American (US) Actor RPF, British Actor RPF
Genre: Drinking & Talking, Gen, look... bear with me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-26 14:45:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13237947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singmyheart/pseuds/singmyheart
Summary: “Try that again, in the Queen’s English, if you would,” Nathan said, patiently.Russell sat up, with an effort (admittedly, he’d had a bit to drink. Nathan had brought armagnac, because Nathan wasn’t a real person). “I can’t stop seeing it,” he repeated.





	gotta be true to your code

**Author's Note:**

> context, or Why I Personally Am Going to Fight Andrew Garfield With My Hands, [is here](http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/theatre-dance/news/andrew-garfield-gay-backlash-lgbt-community-without-the-physical-act-angels-in-america-a7828516.html).

 

 

The stress headache had started early: a word here, a gesture there, and the tension started at his temples and crept inward and downward and spread out and stayed there for the following weeks. Benign enough at first — _laugh it off,_ wasn’t that what Jon had said, _if you can_ — but it’d worn him down. The fault zone could only take so much, and had at last begun to fracture. He’d known this would happen, and he’d be impressed he’d lasted this long if he weren’t so goddamn relieved. Or something. He’d kind of forgotten where this was headed. Fuck Jon, too, the filthy hypocrite.

The _Drag Race_ party had been the last fucking straw, was his point.

“Try that again, in the Queen’s English, if you would,” Nathan said, patiently.

Russell sat up, with an effort (admittedly, he’d had a bit to drink. Nathan had brought armagnac, because Nathan wasn’t a real person). “I can’t stop seeing it,” he repeated. “You know what he’s doing? It’s — drag Little Edie, that’s what.”

Nathan laughed; not his real one, but the dry chuckle that sounded a bit like an engine turning over. “That’s evocative.”

(Probably he could tell the remark was recycled; Russell had described it thusly to the group chat recently, following the aforementioned _Drag Race_ watchparty. He’d ducked out of it early enough to be rude and it was still the worst evening he’d had in recent memory despite that, despite its being well-attended and exceedingly well-catered, by a long way. _like a punishment out of greek mythology_ had been his exact words, actually.

 _STOP,_ Danny had texted, immediately. _SHUT YOUR BEAUTIFUL MOUTH. CEASE BUT CONTINUE. this is the greatest thing i have ever heard. i never want to forget it. when i’m old and senile and can no longer tie my shoes i hope i still have this_ ).

“It is,” Russell insisted, a little more vehemently than was perhaps strictly called for, given that Nathan hadn’t actually disagreed. Bristling at being thrown a bone. “He’s — it’s — _Grey Gardens_ by way of Rupaul —”

“Listen, I knew Little Edie, alright —”

“Oh, fuck off, you knew Little Edie —”

“— and provided I explained some relevant points to her, she’d be appalled, quite frankly.”

“I suppose you knew the Kennedys, too, did you. The Rat Pack? You were there when Sinatra and Peter Lawford fell out?”

Nathan didn’t dignify this particular line of questioning with a response, as usual; he made outrageous claims in a similar vein about fifty times a day and never seemed bothered by anyone trying to call him on it. Russell figured around a third of them were true, but what did he know. “Ru, on the other hand, thinks it’s _hilarious._ ”

“You told Rupaul?” That one, he believed.

“I told you, Russ, darling — once you get to be my age, bitchy old queens bridge club. The world gets very small and exceedingly rude, north of forty. That is a fact and a great joy of my life. You’re going to love it.”  

“You’re not old,” Russell protested automatically.

“You are sweet,” Nathan sighed, laid a hand on Russell’s cheek (missed the first time and had to try again, the only thing that betrayed how much he’d drunk himself). Regarded him fondly. “Don’t be a kiss-ass.”

“Diplomatic, as always…”

“Stop, you sound like my husband.” Nathan waved a hand like he was shooing away a fly and Russell sat back, tried to focus on a particular patch of carpet to see if it’d make the world stop tilting just enough to fuck with him. It worked, a bit, maybe. Didn’t _not_ work, anyway.

Rocky chose that moment to come trundling sleepily out the kitchen and Nathan lit up. “Come here,” he cooed, delighted, and scooped him up; Rocky bore this with the usual resignation, sighed as if to say _this might as well happen._ Nose to nose, Nathan pronounced him “a perfect creature,” with gravity. “I love him.”

“Take him, he’s a terror.”

Nathan contrived to look shocked and wounded on Rocky’s behalf. “I would, if my Mabel wouldn’t eat him. Anyway, don’t listen to him, Rocky, poor thing. He’s not in his right mind.”

“Whose fault is that, then?”

“I suppose you want me to say it’s Prior Spiderman’s.” Russell did, in fact, but Nathan quelled him with a look. “I’m taking credit for this one, though. This is a Lane special. You’re adorable.”

“Hey, easy, now. You’re married.” Leaning on it a little, he winked; Nathan faked a swoon.  

“Married, not blind.”

Quiet for a minute or two, save Rocky snuffling contentedly into Nathan’s free hand. There’d been music on, Russell had put a record on, or he’d thought he had. Before the armagnac, and the wine. What had happened to that, he wondered. He still kind of wanted to open his mouth and scream, just have one good long scream about it all and then he'd probably be fine. “You hear what he said to Other Nathan, the other day?” he ventured instead. Settling back into the couch Nathan made a noncommittal sort of noise that could have meant _yes, and let’s not rehash it_ or maybe _I’m about to fall asleep._ “Said he loved _The Birdcage,_ but that —”

“No,” Nathan interjected, perking up. Ha.

“Don’t interrupt me. He loved _The Birdcage,_ but didn’t want to tell you ‘cause — I’m quoting — ‘I don’t want to jerk him off about it, you know what I mean?’”

“How American of him.”

“Plus he’s scared of you,” Russell added, with relish.

“He should be.”

“Other Nathan looked about ready to swallow his tongue.”

Nathan flat-out cackled. “Oh. Duckling. He’s a stronger man than I am, I’m going to send him flowers.”

“I mean,” Russell went on, conjuring Garfield’s sibilant, limp-wristed Prior (encouraged by Nathan’s horrified-delighted expression he was laying it on a little thick, but only a little). “Don’t take that _tone,_ that one that says you know everything because you’re a _man_ and I know nothing because I’m a _woman —_ ”

“Oh, no, stop —”

“You _bastard —_ ”

“Don’t do this to me —”

“Genius. I — like, I can’t even talk about it. Pure genius."

“My heart can’t take this, I’m old and delicate —”

“Iconic. Iconic.”

“ _Stop,”_ Nathan got out around helpless, slightly hysterical laughter. Swiped away a tear and flung an arm over his eyes; Rocky looked affronted at being jostled. “Enough. God. I’m going to send Other Nathan so many flowers. An Edible Arrangement. Or ten. ‘You’re a saint. Love, an American homo in London’.” A long moment, and Nathan addressed the ceiling, suddenly thoughtful. “Robin would have eaten him for lunch, you know.”

Russell made an encouraging noise, he hoped; Nathan wasn’t looking for an answer.

“This was a million years ago, mind you, but — I remember on the press tour, whenever the questions started getting pointed… he’d go off and do the whole rest of the interview as Carol Burnett, or what have you. Fuckin’ vultures, Nate, he’d say. Fuckin’ animals.” He smiled, almost to himself, eyes faraway. Scratched absently at Rocky’s ears. “My God, I’m tired,” he added; all at once, fierce. Russell tried not to quail instinctively at the look thrown in his direction. “You ever feel this — just — goddamn exhausted?”

Nathan knew, always had, what people expected when they met him. A little song and dance, a snide remark; but he had this, too. Barbs, weariness, a vast wine-dark sea of anger under all of that. His Roy had it, let it loose in fearsome storms, flooded the house with it, bathed in it — but Nathan, everyday Nathan, Nate, he kept it walled up, for the most part.

Russell had the yes on the tip of his tongue: _yeah, of course I do. I’m tired too and I haven’t figured yet how to stop it eating me up._  He’d sit at Nathan’s feet to learn how, he thought, if Nathan would permit it.

“Oh, I’m getting maudlin,” Nathan complained, and sat back up, shook it off. One of those turns on a dime Russell still wasn’t quite used to. Maybe he was embarrassed, or he was just looking for the next shiny thing to grab his attention, who knew. “I’ll start on politics next if you don’t stop me. Or religion. And nobody wants that, do they, Rocky?” Rocky stayed aloof. “It’s past my bedtime, I’m calling it a night, I think — no, no, honey, that’s yours.”

Russell had offered the bottle, almost empty as it was; tucked an arm around it instead. “Walk you out…” The jaw-cracking yawn betrayed him, though, all the catharsis and brandy catching up with him.

“I’ll manage. You’re drunk.”

“So’re you, mate. As the proverbial skunk.”

“I’m fine, I’ll get a cab.” Russell managed a weak squawk of protest as Rocky was deposited carefully into his lap. “See you bright and early. Drink some water, and then straight to bed with you, you hear me?”

“Don’t tell me what to do, you’re not my real dad.”

Nathan laughed, real belly laugh. Russell had to kind of squint to watch him leave — bounced off the wall in the hallway doing it but he got out the front door unscathed.

When he got to work the following afternoon Garfield had a flower tucked behind his ear, and another in the neck of the caftan he’d draped himself in (honestly). Other Nathan waffled adorably from the depths of the hothouse that just yesterday had been his dressing room, but claimed he hadn’t the foggiest who could have been responsible. “Bit weird for a prank, isn’t it?”

“Bit,” Russell agreed, very seriously, and accepted the crown of flowers Garfield had just spent the last few minutes painstakingly weaving together.

“Dryad _realness,_ ” he declared, after a long few seconds’ solemn contemplation, and floated off in a haze of silk to bother Denise about something or other.

Nathan already had a rose behind his own ear by the time Russell ran into him, and — it was the damnedest thing — went temporarily deaf when he asked about it.    

 

**Author's Note:**

> hey, did you know that Nathan Lane and Russell Tovey [both have Frenchies](https://www.instagram.com/p/BdSXZLBA9dW/?hl=en&taken-by=russelltovey), and Nathan and his husband [wrote a children's book about theirs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xp1Lj3h3RvU)? also Russell's instagram is, overall, modern art. it's all true. you're welcome.
> 
> come yell at me about how stupid this is [on tumblr](https://www.menschinresidence.tumblr.com) if you're into that.


End file.
